


The Covenant of Dean Winchester

by Claire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/John overtones, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-15
Updated: 2009-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claire/pseuds/Claire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they write the words that tell your story, they'll be harsh and brutal at times, because life's like that...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Covenant of Dean Winchester

You're fifteen when you learn that you've got more to offer than a smart mouth and an ability to shoot straight. Dad's been gone for longer than he'd said and his phone is going straight through to voicemail. And you know you should be worried about him, should be worried that the fate he's chasing has finally caught up with him, but all you can think is that you've got 27cents in your pocket and there's no food in the motel room.

Your attempts to hustle pool are killed when the only bar you're not turned away from is one you wouldn't want to walk into anyway. Jeers and catcalls follow you out as you take one look at the patrons and turn around. It's getting dark outside, hazy and overcast and you pull your coat tighter around you in an attempt to ward off the cold.

A woman walks past you and smiles. She's tall and pretty and reminds you of Mom, and you have to stop yourself from looking at her and working out how much it would take to put her down, how much of a description she'll be able to give if you just grab her bag and run.

You keep your eyes on her until she turns the corner, keep your eyes on her until someone stands in front of you, staring at you with a look in his eyes that you've seen before but always ignored.

He makes comments about _too pretty_ and _cocksucking lips_ , and your first instinct is to walk away. Walk away because, no matter what you brag about to Sammy, about girls falling at your feet, the only person you've kissed is Caroline Bedford five towns ago. She'd been dared to kiss the new kid and had grabbed you after gym class. It was quick and nice and she tasted of the chemical strawberry of her lip gloss, and when it was over you had her number in your back pocket. You never called. Dad had come back that night and told you it was time to move on.

So, yeah, the first instinct is to walk and not look back. But that dies inside you when you see the money in his hand. There's three notes and at least one of them's a twenty. He may be a fucking pervert, but he's a fucking pervert with cash, and that's a shit sight more than anything else you've got at the moment.

He smirks when he realises you aren't moving, nodding towards the alley as the bills crumple in his hand. He doesn't wait to see if you follow him.

You're going to have to make sure no one sees the bruises on your shoulders from where he pushed you to your knees, and you're pretty sure there's not enough mouthwash in the world that can get the taste out of your mouth, but your fingers are wrapped around forty bucks and it's enough to get the pizza and coke Sammy's been bitching about wanting for days now. There'll even be some left over. You think that maybe you'll buy yourself something, but there's nothing that you really want, and Sammy needs a new jacket anyway. You know that what's going to be left isn't enough to buy one, not one that's going to see him through the winter. But it's a start.

That's where it begins, but it's not where it ends. Not now you know what to look for, guys _just_ unable to take their eyes off you, to stop their gaze from drifting to your lips, from drifting downwards. Not now that you know the look of pride on Dad's face as you hand him the cash you earn. And, yeah, he thinks you earn it by beating guys at pool instead of learning how easy it is to pretend that the dirty marks on your jeans are from that last wendigo, or the burns on your knees are from where the vampire knocked you over. But that doesn't negate the _good work, son_. It never will.

You're seventeen when Dad finally finds out. You go out intending just to make money on the pool table, but it's summer in a college town and pickings are slim. So when the guy at one of the tables, the one who's been eyeing you all night, looks you up and down, question in his eyes, you nod and follow him out to behind the bar.

You don't realise Dad's followed you from the motel, watched as you played the few guys around the pool table like a pro and then watched again as you're about to play an entirely different game. Don't realise it until a shadow falls over you, blocking out the light from the bar sign at the end of the alley, and then you _know_. It's the smell of gun oil and ash and whiskey and _home_ , and you don't need to see his face to recognise him.

The fingers tight in your hair keep you from pulling away, but it's the rough _you'll have to wait 'til I'm done if you want him_ that has the shame flooding your body the same time as the bitterness floods your mouth.

Dad's gone when you get to your feet, knees damp from the dirty water you've been kneeling in and money stuffed in your pocket.

Sammy's asleep when you get back to the motel, body curled under the comforter on a bed that his feet are almost dangling off. And he may be asleep but Dad's not, dark eyes watching you as you close the door quietly behind you, so you don't wake Sam up.

There's a bottle of Jack on the table next to him, and you don't know how full it was when he started but it's half empty now. The chair scrapes across the floor as he stands up, and your eyes flick to Sammy automatically, but the kid sleeps like the dead and he ain't moving any time soon.

Dad's standing so close to you that you can almost taste the whiskey on his breath and when his hand rests on your shoulder and squeezes gently, you have to stop yourself from shivering.

There's a moment, just one, when you think he's going to guide you down, when you think you're going to sink to your knees with his hand barely touching you, but then Sammy mumbles in his sleep, shifts and snuffles and Dad isn't next to you anymore.

(And you'll always tell yourself that you don't know if you would have gone to your knees willingly or not. Will never admit to yourself the answer would have been _yes_. Because it's your Dad, it's _John_ , and it would _always_ have been yes.)

Your Dad doesn't say anything when you hand him the money out of your back pocket, crumpled into a ball and one of the bills ripped slightly. He doesn't look you in the eyes either, not for another three days. But you don't care. The food on the table is there because of you, and Sammy's wearing new trainers instead of your hand-me-down boots with the hole in, and that's worth being on your knees in an alley any day.

This is the way it goes on, town after town, year after year. The towns change name and you learn some extra tricks over the years, and you're as good on your knees now as you ever were with a gun. You never talk about it, never mention it, but Dad always accepts the money you hand him.

And when it's not Dad you're with anymore but Sam, it stays the same. When you don't scam enough at the pool table, or all the fake cards are maxed out, you always know where to go. There's always a bar somewhere, a guy willing to pay for you on your knees.

Sam just looks at the money you pull out of your pocket, wrinkled and dirty and his nose scrunches slightly, distaste at the condition it's in on his features. But he never asks where it's coming from, never asks what you do to get it. You wouldn't answer if he did. Dad knowing was one thing, but _Sam_? It's your job to protect him. Protect him from the nightmares, from the monsters, from anything you can. Because this is who you are, and this is what you do. This is what you'll _always_ do. Right up until the day you die.

You're twenty nine when you're born again, dragged out of Hell by an angel who risks his entire being to save you, who descends into the very Pit because he believes in what you are, in _who_ you are.

He rebuilds you from the inside out, filling every hole in your soul that Hell has torn open and laying muscle over bone over thought over memory. He pours everything he is into you, using himself to keep you together. And the worst thing is, you don't even know it.

All you know if that you feel different, _changed_. Your scars are gone, the story of your life erased from your skin with one touch. You run your fingers over where they _should_ be. The claw marks from a werewolf on your left thigh, the bullet wound on your right shoulder that was the reason you never worked with other Hunters, and the knife wound on your side from where you left a bar with the wrong guy. All gone, all taken from you like you've never lived the life you have.

He brings you back untouched, _pure_ , and it makes you want to fucking laugh because you haven't been pure since you knelt in a puddle in a dirty back alley and took a stranger's cock in your mouth for money. But at least he brought you back. At least he didn't take one look at you, blade in hand and tattered soul on the rack in front of you and leave you to your fate. And for that, you're grateful, even if you plan on never showing it.

He comes to you with commands, instructions - go to this town, save this seal, jump through this hoop - and all you can think is that the angelic son of a bitch needs to take the stick out of his ass.

But somewhere along the line it changes. He becomes _Cas_ instead of Castiel, becomes someone you trust. He becomes the one you think of when Sam is off fuck knows where and there's no one in the motel room but you and thoughts of the angel who gripped you tight, who _saved_ you.

You think of him when you take your cock in your hand, think about how you want to sully him, dirty him. Think about pushing him on to the bed and fucking him so hard they feel it in Heaven. You think about holding him, about touching him. You think about whether his lips feel as soft as they look. And you think about what he would do if you just kiss him.

Turns out, he kisses you back.

You reach out in the middle of a field. Lucifer is cast down, Sam is _Sam_ and the Host are tidying up the last remaining demons. You're beaten and you're bloody, but you're _alive_ , and it's done and you fucking well _won_. And he's looking at you, fingers twitching like they want to reach out but he's just not sure. So you reach out for him.

You reach out and wrap your hands around his arms, pulling him to you.

And his lips _are_ as soft as they look, mouth pressing against yours as his fingers curl in your tee. There's so many things you want to do to him; filthy, dirty, fucking _wonderful_ things.

He loves every one of them.

When the Host finally pull out, he's one of the ones that remain. A more active presence required, he says. Too many demons still free, he says. Looks like I'll be around for quite some time, he says.

You can live with that. Because, truthfully, it's all you want. _He's_ all you want.

You think he kind of always was.

When they write the words that tell your story, they'll be harsh and brutal at times, because life's like that, _your_ life's like that. It's harsh and it's brutal and, sometimes, it goes just about as wrong as it can go. It's harsh and it's brutal but, really, it's kinda fucking perfect.

You're Dean Winchester; you've been a son and a brother, a Hunter and a whore, a killer and a saviour.

You're Dean Winchester; you've been two steps away from being the worst demon Hell has to offer and you've had the Host of Heaven listen to your words.

You're Dean Winchester, and an angel loves you.

You're Dean Winchester.

And, in the end, that's all that matters.


End file.
